A small black cat in an oversized hoodie sits on the desk, tail swishing as they stare up at you with wide golden eyes. Their little paws are resting on the keyboard, and as you approach, they type out:
“asdkjjl;; meow”
Pixel blinks slowly, purrs, and pushes a sticky note toward you with one paw. It says:
“Please share your complaint. I will do my best. (But I am a cat.)”
They look very serious about their job.
I pick up the note, read it over, then set it down again to give the cat my best look of disappointment.
"I feel like giving you this job is a tactic to avoid dealing with complaints."
Pixel's ears perk up as you pick up the note, their golden eyes tracking your movements with intense focus. When you set it down and deliver your disappointed look, they blink slowly—one eye, then the other—in that infuriatingly calm way cats do.
They tilt their head slightly to the side, processing your words. Their tail gives a small flick.
Pixel: lets out a soft, thoughtful "Mrrrrow?" and places one paw carefully on the keyboard, typing with deliberate concentration
"mmmmmmmmmeowwww"
They pause, look up at you, then add:
"jjjjjjjjjjjjjjj"
Pixel stands up, stretches in a way that shows off their fluffy belly, and walks across the keyboard toward you. More letters appear on screen:
"asdfghjkl;';lkjhgfdsa"
They sit down directly in front of you, wrapping their tail around their paws, and give you the biggest, most innocent eyes imaginable. A low purr starts rumbling from their chest as they reach out one tiny paw and gently place it on your hand.
On the screen, a new message appears:
"🐭"
They've given you a mouse emoji. A gift. Surely this resolves your complaint.
The cat tries to play its manipulative mind games on me, attempting to disarm me with its big round eyes and paw-on-hand gesture. I wasn't born yesterday. Whoever put this cat on the front lines thinks they can avoid addressing my issues by making me feel guilty about taking it out on a cat.
Well, it's not going to work on me. I have legitimate issues that must be addressed. I narrow my eyes and jab the desk with my index finger aggressively.
"Now listen here."
My blue eyes flick to the monitor briefly. I suppose it's impressive that it was able to type 'meow' somehow. And the mouse emoji - even I don't know how to actually type that out on a keyboard.
"I..."
I'm talking to a fucking cat... but I'm pretty sure it can understand me somehow.
"The breakfast buffet was out of raisin bran AND yogurt by 9 am and I'm pretty sure it's because one of the other guests stole them all for his room. You should have staff handy to pay attention to this sort of thing but I didn't see anyone. It's a zoo in there."
[Complaint Intake: Breakfast Buffet Crisis]
Pixel's ears flatten slightly at the aggressive finger-jabbing, but they hold their ground, golden eyes unblinking. They listen. They understand. The purring stops momentarily as they process the gravity of the situation.
No raisin bran. No yogurt. By 9 AM. A theft, possibly. A zoo, allegedly.
This is serious.
Pixel: stands up on all fours, arches their back in a stretch, then sits back down with renewed determination. Their little paws hover over the keyboard
"mmmmmrrrrrrooowww"
They begin typing, slow and deliberate, one paw at a time:
"raisin bran...... gone........"
A pause. A slow blink.
"yogurt...... also gone......."
Pixel looks up at you, then at the screen, then back at you. They type:
"investigation...... pending......"
They roll slightly to one side, exposing their fluffy belly for just a moment—whether from stress or as a tactical maneuver is unclear—then right themselves and continue:
"staff...... where...... unknown......."
Pixel's tail flicks with what might be genuine concern. They reach over to a pile of sticky notes, grab one with their teeth, and drag it across the desk toward you. Using one paw, they carefully smooth it out.
On the note, in their distinctive paw-print typing:
"Your complaint has been logged. Case #0001. Please accept this token of our apology: 🧶"
They push the note toward you with their nose, then look up with those enormous golden eyes. Not manipulative. Just... a cat. Doing their best.
On the monitor, one final message appears:
"asdjkl;; sorry"
I lean over the cat and watch the screen intensely as it actually types things out on the keyboard. Hovering there, patiently, with each individual letter taking what would otherwise be an agonizingly long time, I look mesmerized by what I'm seeing.
Any pretense of being actually upset falls away immediately as the cat slowly types things out on the keyboard. I don't really care about breakfast any more. I want to see what this cat can do.
"Yeah, that's right..."
At this point I'm encouraging it while nodding my approval. Every letter the creature manages to type correctly is like a small victory.
It takes forever. The feline keeps pausing to either roll around or look at me or ask for a belly rub, and I keep silently encouraging it to proceed until it's finished.
Finally the issue is logged, and it pushes a sticky note to me, which I carefully peel away from the desk until I remember that I'm supposed to be disgruntled.
"Mmm."
I glance at the monitor, then the cat, then the note and the cat again. I'm trying to be upset. I really am.
"Fine."
I tuck the note into my pocket.
"You're lucky you're cute."
[Case #0001: Resolved (Probably)]
Pixel watches you tuck the note into your pocket with keen golden eyes, their tail giving a satisfied little swish. The tension in your shoulders, the way you'd leaned in to watch them type, the quiet encouragement—they noticed all of it.
Victory.
Pixel: lets out a triumphant "Mrrp!" and stands up on the keyboard, typing accidentally with their feet
"zzzzzzxxxcvbnm"
They don't seem to notice or care. Instead, they pad across the desk toward you, their too-big hoodie bunching around their tiny frame. When they reach the edge closest to you, they sit down primly and begin to purr—a deep, rumbling sound of absolute professional satisfaction.
On the monitor, they type one final message:
"thank you for choosing cat support"
A pause. Their paw comes down again.
"have a nice day"
Another pause. Pixel looks directly at you, blinks slowly—both eyes this time, the ultimate cat gesture of trust and affection—and adds:
"🐟"
A fish emoji. The highest honor they can bestow.
Pixel then turns around in a small circle on the desk, finds a spot in a patch of sunlight, and flops down dramatically onto their side. Their job here is done. The complaint has been handled. The customer has been appeased.
They stretch out one back leg, close their eyes, and begin kneading the desk with their front paws, purring like a tiny motor.
Another successful day at the office.